


Unspoken

by Kamikaze_Embers



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Backstory spoilers, M/M, More later - Freeform, OCs in later chapters, Self-Esteem Issues, Unnamed characters - Freeform, Violence, and inferences, bb-52 later, end me please, literally a pile of headcannons, self projecting, spaghetti is a piece of shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-06 02:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15876966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamikaze_Embers/pseuds/Kamikaze_Embers
Summary: What he won't say haunts him





	1. Blur Of Time

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Blood, violence, manipulation/gaslighting. Read at your own risk.

“Don’t you believe me?” 

The voice is too familiar and he covers his ears instinctively. But the voice is in his own head, playing through his mind like a broken record. He shivers, eyes shut tightly. The image burns in his mind- the red hair, that condescending smirk he always wanted to just slap off his face, and of course, the look in his eyes. The way he stared at B-52, taking a terrifying interest in him, but only for his abilities. His fighting abilities and mechanical pieces. Nothing else. 

Spaghetti, that piece of crap. He has taken him in, yes, but was that really any better than wasting away, awaiting orders that would never arrive? His previous Master Attendant had been killed- he’d felt the contract break. He had gone numb. Lifeless. Immobile.

The memories rush in, all unwelcome. He can vividly recall the place he was kept in, the building that was never any kind of home. Never would be. 

The voice continues, his figure materializing in front of him. Clear as day. He’s back there, pressed against a wall. Cold, bitter stone. 

“I’m doing you a favor. Otherwise, you’d still be there, rusting away standing up. You know that, right? Be grateful for what you have.” His hands are cold as he cups the other’s chin, forcing B-52 to look up. He is a cold person, watching B-52 return from errands with cut up wings and blood-stained clothes without a word. But then, if he did say anything to B-52, it was always scolding him violently about what he might have messed up. 

But that was better than the cold shoulder. The way he suddenly no longer existed to the other. He would constantly look at his reflection, make sure he was still real. Yet even his reflection looked fake- the metal arm glaring in the harsh light, his mechanical wings awkward and heavy behind him. In a way, Spaghetti was always giving him the cold shoulder, unless he needed something.

The door slams shut, interrupting his current train of thought. He is grateful for the distraction, only to immediately become bitter again as he recalls what this meant.

He’s going out, which meant B-52 would be quite literally locked in the house. Trapped like some sort of wild creature, a monster perhaps. His wings hung heavy. Catching sight of the bright sun outside, he found himself longing to just break out and fly. Fly far away, away from this place that would never be any kind of home, away from his captor. 

He’d be free. 

Wait, no. Who would give the machine the orders if he was all alone? If he didn’t move for long periods of time, he would grow stiff and his movements would become slow. He stands there, waiting. Someone barks at him, a long-awaited order. And he carries it out without question. He quietly hates himself for it, but he is but a machine. 

And machines require orders, he adds coldly, standing still again.

All I need are orders. Nothing else, really. Maybe occasional maintenance, but I can handle that myself. I’m not human, so it doesn’t matter. My purpose is clear. 

He walks with purpose, eyes straight ahead. The little kid turns, eyes full of a childish innocence. A light B-52 will never understand nor have. He clenches his teeth.

He attacks, the kid screams and starts sobbing.

Nothing deteers him from his task. Not even the little kid crying under him. Begging won’t do him any good. B-52 was given orders, and no amount of words will change that. Everything goes silent after what feels like an eternity.

Red. His hands are red. The little kid is pale, lifeless.   
Yet he feels nothing.   
Machines don’t feel remorse.


	2. Cold Shoulder In The Rain

It is dark when he returns. The shadowy figure in the doorway glares at him with a look he recognizes all too well. He’s late, way behind schedule. B-52 keeps his head up, hands at his sides. His mind is peacefully blank, his expression a default stare. He walks into the building and waits wordlessly as the other berates him, yelling and getting in his face. 

“What took you so long? Are you incapable of a simple task? I gave you an easy command and you fall behind schedule anyways?” He is livid, composed appearance shattering like glass. A scowl on his pale face, he turns abruptly and leaves the room.

Without orders, B-52 stands there, taking in his words. 

“I have failed him.” He mutters. The feeling of shame sinks into his entire being like a cold, clammy hand wrapping around him, grabbing his throat and leaving him unable to breathe. Leaning against the wall, his eyes begin to flutter shut.

“Engine… power shortage…” 

He wakes up to find himself still alone. B-52 frowns as his mechanics begin to warm up. Walking into the kitchen, he notes Cannoli scurrying about, his steps frightened and timid. He doesn't look up, doesn't meet B-52’s eyes.

Not good. Cannoli is never afraid, not like this.

“He's very upset with you.” The curly haired man pipes up, dark brown eyes wide. He is incredibly fidgety, and B-52 finds himself staring at a long scar that streaks across Cannoli’s face.

_I caused that. I am the reason he is hurt. I truly am a horrible being._

Cannoli is all too eager to leave. B-52 looks around and notices the red haired male sitting at the table, eyes focused on his plate. All at once, Spaghetti stands up, aggressively bumping into B-52 as he storms out of the room, not even looking at the mechanical Food Soul.

B-52 glances at his reflection, just to make sure he's real. Rubbing his shoulder, he sets about his predetermined tasks. Cannoli seemed to have been rushed with his cleaning, which is very unusual. But machines do not need to worry about such things, so he doesn't pay much attention to it.

Once the mundane cleaning tasks have all been completed, B-52 finds himself drained of energy. Nothing a quick nap wouldn't fix. He walks over to the wall and begins to drift asleep when his cheek begins to sting.

Opening his eyes, he is surprised to see none other than Spaghetti in front of him, hand poised to strike.

“What are you doing? You do not require rest. You are a machine, you do not need human things like sleep. You've disappointed me once already.” He lowers his hand to his side and walks away briskly.

B-52 stands there a while longer.

_Right. Machines don't rest. Get back to work._

He shakes his head and immediately resumes work. Since he failed his previous task, he is only given housework today. It seems he is finally giving Cannoli a much-needed break. The sound of heeled boots on the wooden stairs grows fainter and B-52 finds himself concerned. He scolds himself again, cursing his humanoid mind for such thoughts.

It should not matter. He thinks this even amongst Cannoli’s screams.

_I could save him, but I have not been programmed to do so._

He blocks out the sound and focuses on his tasks, going outside to complete a few of them. When he goes to head back inside, he discovers the door is locked. The sky is growing heavy with gray clouds, hinting at the approaching storm.

He gulps audibly. He's stuck outside, in the rain he hates so much. 

When it rains, it pours. He shudders as the rain fills the spaces between his gears, dampening the canvas of his wings and just making his entire body feel so heavy. He can barely drag his feet, his arm short-circuiting violently and suddenly. B-52 curses under his breath, holding the metal arm with his real one. Moving any of his mechanical parts sends shooting pains throughout his circuit.

_Is this how machines die?_


	3. A Sunny Winter Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: More abuse, death, gaslighting.

Spaghetti has no memory of yesterday. No memory of locking B-52 outside in the downpour, nothing. He shrugs it off, telling B-52 he’s crazy. That he would never do such a thing. Yet throughout the day, it’s almost as if the other Food Soul had changed overnight. He’s definitely more caring, almost like a parent. Well, if they actually did have parents, that is. It’s a welcome yet scary change. B-52 tiptoes around the red haired man, afraid to lose this side of the usually cruel individual. 

Today, they are heading off to a nearby village to meet with an old friend. The commonly used path is dangerous and in desperate need of repairs, yet the other paths are hardly any better. As Spaghetti puts on his coat, he glances towards B-52. 

“Would you accompany me? It is quite dangerous.” He stares at his weapon and then at his reflection within the polished metal- Cannoli had done well with the polish this time. Noticing that B-52 does not move, he sighs quietly. “Ah, right. B-52, come with me.” The order is processed and soon accepted. He steps forward, towards him.

“Cannoli, you look after everything else while I’m gone.” He calls over his shoulder as the two leave.

The two begin to travel along the well-worn path, occasionally having to fight off Fallen Angels and robbers. B-52 thinks nothing of it, even as the ground becomes stained in red and dark purple, a trail following the murderous pair all the way to the quiet little village. There is no need to talk except for the occasional order so B-52 doesn’t shut down. The path is long and winding, trees all around. B-52 does not question the order to kill; it’s not in his programming. He simply raises his cane and fires. Human, Fallen Angel… none of it matters. He barely registers who he is being told to kill.

_Destruction is just part of the life of a machine._

_The colors of the village are dull, not worth noting. There is no one worth noting- everyone looks almost the same, at least to his mechanical mind. B-52 is content with simply following Spaghetti, barely paying attention to anything around him. It does not matter, for it will not look this way when they leave. The red haired man pauses to ask someone for directions, an alm almost friendly look on his face. B-52 hovers nearby, blank._

_“Do you know where I can find this address, sir? I don’t visit here often.” He begins, hands at his sides. He hands the person the piece of paper. He nods, then points behind him._

_“Of course. Keep going straight ahead, then make a left at that well down there. It’ll be the second house on the right.” The man explains hurriedly._

_“Well, thank you. You seem to be in a hurry, so we’ll leave you to your work.” He begins to walk around him, but the man blocks him. Spaghetti frowns, friendly demeanor vanishing like a cloud of smoke. “What is it now? Can’t you see I have somewhere to be?”_

_The man grins, stepping closer to the pair. “You know, I don’t like giving help for free.”_

_“I’m well aware. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you.” The redhead grins, but it is not a friendly smile. B-52 snaps back into reality, programming kicking in. That look- he knows it all too well. Slowly, he fires up his cane while Spaghetti shifts to block him from view. He then raises his hand and points at the grinning man._

_He is no longer grinning, eyes wide in shock. He puts his hands up as the Food Soul gives a single command that is all too familiar to the mechanical being hovering behind him._

_“Cocktail B-52, attack.”_

_“Wait, I was kid-”_

_There’s a click, a sudden green flame, a scream, and then… nothing. Nothing but a burnt, dying body. B-52 continues his attack, ignoring the onlookers who have begun to gather. B-52’s expression is cold. The other Food Soul watches, hands in his pockets. He smirks as the man’s screams stop abruptly._

_“Waste of time.” He mutters, kicking the now-dead body once. “Cocktail, that’s enough. Cease fire.” The cane is lowered as the blonde hovers quietly. “Kidding, huh? Well, I wasn’t. Come, let’s find this place already. We’ve cause a scene- not that I really care. I just don’t like crowds of people in rags.”_

_As they leave, a young child kneels next to the corpse and sobs. His hands are clenched in fists at his sides, his tiny body shaking with barely suppressed rage.  
“They will pay for what they have done. I promise.” He hisses through gritted teeth.  
Someone puts a hand on his shoulder and he looks up at them.  
“Revenge is never the answer, Gelato. Let’s just go home.” She whispers, helping him to his feet. He follows her in silence.  
There's nothing left for him to say._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> google how do i stay motivated to write-


	4. Let It Burn, Let It Turn Into Ash and Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All magic comes with a price.
> 
> Or in this case, wishes.

The building is old, the roof sinking in distinctively. The redhead merely strides up to it and kicks the door down, his usual smirk plastered on his face. The people jolt slightly, startled. 

“Do I need to state why I'm here?” He chides, noticing the way everyone has frozen in place, barely even alive. B-52 stands off to the side, hands clasped together. None of this made sense. Why didn't they snap to attention? Why didn't they quickly shuffle over, waiting for orders?

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have the money to pay you.” One says, hidden under what looked like it might have been a cloak before. His face is ashen and tears stream down, interrupting the soot in long, thin lines. B-52 does not waver.

These people are stupid, he decides. To not fulfill their end of the deal with Spaghetti, who had granted their wishes, was a surefire death sentence. Did they not know that? Their expressions were lost on him- didn't they accept their fate? They would die at his hands for this. 

“Well, I gave you a week. What do you mean you can't fulfil your end?” The smile never leaves his face, one hand twirling his weapon repeatedly, a blur of polished silver. His face holds no sympathy, the smile growing into a sneer as a cruel snicker escapes his thin lips. The look in the red haired man's eyes can only be described as psychotic- a sharp glint lighting up the murky purple that reminds one of poison, perhaps even of a Fallen Angel's remains. Unnaturally sharp teeth bared in his characteristic smirk, he laughs again. It's a cruel and cutting sound, making the people in front of him tremble.

“Well, what's another bunch of murders to a killing machine? Go on, B-52. Make them pay me with their lives.” Spaghetti's words hold no remorse, his tone flat with almost boredom. B-52 launches into the air and begins his attack. The screams and pleas mean nothing, the roar of the blue flames drowning out everything around them. His ice blue eye glows, reflecting the light of the fire. His expression is blank, lifeless.

What are a few lives to a mechanical creature made to take said lives? These pathetic humans wouldn't pay the arranged way, so now the price is much steeper, so much more tragic. It's simple, really. The flames die down and everything goes silent except the rhythmic clicking and continuous turning of his gears. B-52 lowers his cane, task complete.

“Well done, B-52. What a great fighter you are!” The praise is unusual, but welcome, in a weird sense. He merely did what he was created to do- that doesn't deserve praise. There's no need to congratulate a machine for following orders; that's all they can do. But the words spark something throughout him, and the smile is genuine.

B-52 pushes the corners of his lips up to try and mirror the redhead's smile. Spaghetti blinks a few times, confused. He then claps B-52 on the back, between his wings. He is laughing as though they are good friends. The mechanical being winces at the stinging feeling the hit leaves, but the sparks continue travelling throughout his body in a way he could never explain. It makes him feel oddly warm, almost comforted.

They walk out, B-52 hovering just behind. 

“Destroy this place. It holds nothing of value.” 

The explanation is unnecessary as the old building explodes with bold blue flames. The wood creaks and snaps, everything crumbling down on top of itself. The bodies are lost in the rubble and people scream all around. The noise is too much and quickly blurs together in an incessant ringing. Exhausted, B-52 suddenly feels his wings go unresponsive, system shutting down as he begins to fall from the air like a wounded bird.

“System engine power...shortage.” He whispers as his vision goes spotty, then clouds over and fades into nothingness.


	5. Love Me Like You Love Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cannoli is salty. B-52 is tired. Spaghetti is bitchy.  
> So basically, today is like any other day.

“For crying out loud, Cannoli. Can you do anything right? Just wake him up- what do you mean he's unresponsive?” The redhead snaps, turning towards his sharply dressed assistant. The other bites his lip, pale pink eyes downcast.

“I'm sorry, sir. He's low on power. Everything's incredibly overheated. He needs-” Cannoli begins to explain, but a sharp, stinging feeling stops him dead in his sentence. He does not say anything, hands slipping into his pockets.

“What he needs is to wake the fuck up.” Spaghetti hisses, staring at the unconscious B-52. He reaches towards him and grabs some of the pale blond hair and tugs. He drops it quickly, drawing his hand back.

“Even the hair is warm. What a mess. Well, he can have a few minutes to cool down. Machines do require maintenance from time to time. Cannoli, I want you to stay here with him until he wakes up. When he does, come get me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, as you wish.”

The red haired man scoffs and leaves. Cannoli then turns towards B-52, a bitter look on his face.

“You're his favorite. Did you know that? No matter what I do, no matter how perfect I am, I'm still not good enough. But you, you damn machine, you are perfect. Stupidly, impossibly perfect!” He's sobbing, the words flowing without end. He punches B-52's mechanical arm repeatedly, ignoring the fleeting heat that shoots up his arm with every touch. 

“God, I hate you so much. Not that it matters to you, but you, you took him from me. I was his favorite. He used to tell me he loved me! I want him to praise me the way he used to! The way he says you're perfect, the way he says such nice things about you- I want him to say those things to me! You're replacing me and he's all I have! I hate you I hate you I hate you so much!”

“Cannoli?” He winces as the gears begin to start up, hissing in pain as he moves his metal arm. 

The curly haired boy freezes, frantically wiping his eyes with the soft fabric of his coat. “What is it? Oh, you're awake.”

“Yes. Huh, your eyes are more red than normal.” B-52 notes dully, his stare uncomfortably fixated on the other's face.

“Oh, I haven't gotten much sleep lately.” Cannoli waves his hand dismissively, continuing to rub at his eyes. “Nothing to concern yourself over.” He grins, letting his falsely cheerful personality show, a fake display of kindness and hospitality. 

Things he never had, but wanted so dearly. He misses those fleeting smiles, the unspoken and spoken praise. Cannoli sighs wistfully, longing for comforting affection from a man who had long gone cold. His pale pink eyes dart away, hands folded in his lap.

“I told him I would alert him when you woke up.” He leaves stiffly, leaving an incredibly confused B-52. Looking at his mechanical arm, he twists the wrist and moves the fingers, watching as they respond to the commands given. The sound of footsteps soon call his attention and he looks up sharply.

The red haired man has returned, the ever-faithful Cannoli following close behind him. B-52 can barely keep his eyes open, vision going in and out of focus.

"Well, good morning, my dear toy. Sleep well?"  
That cruel smile does not fit with such words.


End file.
